The door opened and a big man slid out to the street. He wore a blue uniform and a badge, and he seemed to know precisely where he was going.

As the big cop disappeared inside the building, Bolan asked the girl, "Did you see him?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Know him?"

"It looked like Barney Gibson."

"And who is Barney Gibson?"

"He's the head cop at Harbor Precinct. At the moment, anyway."

"Friend of yours?"

"Not exactly."

They moved on, quickly, detouring via the alleyway so that Bolan could deposit Ralph the Mess, and then they headed straight for Russian Hill.

It was developing into a hell of a hit.

Any visitor to the city who has ever taken the fabulous cable car ride from Powell and Market to Fisherman's Wharf has had an experience not difficult to remember... and that final drop from Russian Hill, down Hyde Street to the Bay, is a spectacular finale befitting the adventure.

From atop the hill most of the north bay is laid out in a panoramic sweep from the Golden Gate to the Embarcadero, with views of Fort Mason, Aquatic Park, Alcatraz Island, and — on a clear day — across to the rugged backdrop of Marin County.

For a luckless traveler afoot in the mist-laden darkness of the early morning, however, Russian Hill presents merely another muscle-straining obstacle in a city of obstacles — and Mack Bolan was finding himself no exception to the rule.

This combat-zone athlete's heart was thudding against his ribcage and his breathing was becoming an ordeal by the time he steered Mary Ching through the gateway to his "drop" — a large, old home on the north slope which had long ago been converted to an apartment building — and which was a few short blocks removed from the mansion of Don Roman DeMarco.

"That's the last time I walk across this town," he panted.

The girl leaned against him for support, breathing too hard for comment. He pulled her to the rear of the building and they paused there, getting their breath and allowing overtaxed muscle tissues a chance to relax.

Presently she asked, "What... are we doing... back here?"

He pointed to the fire escape, hovering just above their heads. "My private entrance," he told her.

"Are we... breaking in?"

"No. My humble pad is up there. Top floor."

She groaned and rolled her eyes and told him, "Okay. If you can, I can."

Bolan chuckled and made a leap for the raised platform. The hinges creaked a little but the contraption came down with his weight, and he ushered the girl aboard with a flourish.

His window was open exactly two inches, the shade drawn to an inch above that — precisely the way he had left it. Still... Bolan had not survived this long on sloppy security.

He moved his lips to Mary's ear and whispered, "Stay!" Then he quickly raised the window and slid inside.

She was becoming worried and fidgety when finally the lights came on inside. A moment later Bolan's smiling face appeared at the window and he said, "Okay."

He helped her in, then lowered the window and shuttered it.

The girl was looking around, wrinkling her nose as only a scrutable Chinese doll can do it.

He said, "Well if is not sable and satin, I'll agree."

Mary was still having trouble with her breathing. She said, "No... I was just wondering if you always come home so carefully."

He shrugged and showed her a grin. "Just another small sacrifice of warfare," he said lightly. "Uh... kitchen's that way. Why don't you brew us some coffee? I have a phone call to make."

She said, "You actually set up housekeeping here?"

"It's safer this way."

She replied, "I guess it is," and went on to the kitchen.

Bolan dropped onto a threadbare couch that groaned under his weight. He lit a cigarette and allowed the smoke to surge around inside for a moment, then he coughed and reached for the telephone.

It was a long-distance, operator-assisted call to a number on the far side of the country.

The timing, he figured, would be just about perfect.

He got the connection on the third ring and the operator was announcing, "San Francisco calling Mr. Frank LaMancha."

The responding voice was gruff and seemingly unimpressed with a call from the Golden Gate. "You got the wrong number, honey," it reported. "There's no LaMancha here."

The operator went through the formality of verifying the number. The man assured her that indeed she had gotten the number she'd dialed, but he still didn't know anybody named LaMancha.

Bolan heard the decisive click of that instrument nearly three thousand miles away. His own voice had never entered the connection. The operator told him, "I'm sorry, sir. Would you like to refer to Pittsfield information?"

He replied, "Thanks, I'll check my own book."

He hung up and studied his watch. It was 5:30. It would be 8:30 in Pittsfield. He looked up to find the China doll studying him from the kitchen doorway.

"Your kitchen is a mess," she told him.

"Find the coffee okay?"

She nodded her head. "Make your call?"

He said, "No good. Try again in five minutes please."

She smiled. "Thank you, Mack."

"For what?"

"For bringing me here. For... trusting me. I know what it must be costing you — in your own peace of mind."

He grinned and told her, "That's one of war's nicer sacrifices."

"I guess I always pictured... men like you... as living high on the hog. You know. Luxury hotel suites, flashy broads lying all around hot and naked, gourmet food and vintage wines, all that..."

Bolan shook his head. "That's the enemy you're thinking of."

She said, "Well does this crash pad come equipped with a John?"

He smiled. "Off the bedroom, and watch out for the roaches."

She made a face at him and disappeared.

Bolan smoked and watched the time tick by. At 5:35 he again picked up the phone, but this time he poked out a direct-dial to a public telephone which was located several Pittsfield city blocks from the home of Leopold Turrin, a caporegime in Bolan's home town, scene of the original conflagration point of this impossible damned war.

One of the nicer surprises of the Pittsfield battle was the last-second revelation that Leo Turrin was an undercover cop.

It was friends like Leo that made the war a bit less impossible... but just a bit less.

They had worked out the telephone routine for contacts which would not jeopardize the security of either.

Bolan got his response this time on the first ring.

A hell of a comforting sound said, "Yeah, hello."

Bolan said, "Avon calling."

"Well at least you didn't drag me out in the middle of the night this time. Hey... paisano... get the hell out of that Goddamned town."

"Can't. Not yet. The irons are hot."

"That's not all that's hot. The wires are burning from coast to coast, and they're all screaming one thing. Death to Bolan. You picked a bummer this time, buddy."

"They're all bummers. The word is already out back there, eh."

"Hell, hours ago."

"The mob's telegraph gets better all the time."

"The first word didn't come from that side of the street."

"No?"

"No is right. The fuzz wires were burning minutes after your hit. Well, maybe an hour after. Ever hear of a James Matchison. Captain James Matchison?"

"No. Should I?"

"You should, and I'm betting you will. He heads up a specialty outfit in the soggy city, geared for open warfare and committed to the salvation of San Francisco. It's called the Brushfire Squad, and they've elected you their next triumphal achievement. They're not going to give you the keys to the city, Sarge."

"I don't want the keys, just the garbage franchise."

"They're going to bury you in their garbage, friend."